Outback Road Trip with Kiki - written by Michael King (Kiki) from an outline by Michael King & Mike Regan (I, me)
23 November - 1 December 2014
Trip Diary Notes
After negotiation and sweet talking by Kiki at the local coffee shop, I was eventually given for free, hot water and a cup, into which I inserted my tea bag. Charm & hard bargaining had won the day again - I can see my influence is starting to make a difference to Kiki & his blitzkrieg approach to inter personal relations.
As we farewelled Cobar we stopped at a sign that announced the outback was officially beginning so we decided to take a 'happy snap' to record the moment for posterity. Later we thought that Cobar could promote itself as a tourist destination with a 'big' gate thus touting its title as the gateway to the outback. While on holidays and trying to relax, my mind still works at a feverish pace with creative ideas like this continuing to bubble to the surface - Kiki has tried to tell me that I need to relax and turn my mind off, but when you have had a turbo charged career like mine, living in the cultural firmament that is the centre of Sydney, it is easier said than done.
At this point we looked at each and realised the road trip into the deep heart of the continent was only now truly beginning and there would be no turning back. Travelling down the Barrier Highway, both of us were surprised at the number and variety of feral goats grazing by the roadside. Our westwards journey was punctuated by a few stops to stalk and try and photograph these creatures, which are on the menu at Rama's Fiji Indian restaurant, in Pearce, ACT. Male goats, also known as Billy goats, with their facial hair, should be more chic nowadays given the popularity of beards among Generation 'Y' males. While possibly obtaining some cachet via their beards, it is doubtful that this will save them from hunters' bullets and or restaurant menus. Whether further synergies develop between these two beard wearing groups, and young men start adorning their heads with artificial horns remains to be seen, but a return to the Viking look in fashion is well overdue. Emus were also common along the Barrier Highway and like their fellow Barrier highway foragers were camera shy. We concluded that both creatures would be almost impossible to get a selfie with. How you might do this was something we turned our minds to. Options considered included: (1) a long selfie stick; (2) dressing up as a goat or an emu and taking off the headpiece of the costume just before the photo; (3) using food to cajole the animal; or (4) employing someone like Kevin Rudd as a selfie emissary, having him sidle up to the goat or emu to ask "Hi guys. Selfie time".
We passed a van that had overtaken us earlier and then hit a large kangaroo. Its front end was badly damaged and it was waiting to be towed back to Cobar, which is not a prospect one would savour. With all the blood and guts strewn over bitumen and bumper bar, it wasn't clear whether it was a red kangaroo or a grey kangaroo; what was clear was that it was a dead kangaroo. Kiki and I had had a shared carcass encounter previously on a trip to the snow more than 25 years ago, when we came across the body of a very recently departed animal in the middle of the Monaro Highway. A quarter of a century ago, steam rose from the dead body, mixing with a fog that enveloped the countryside. As much younger men, in 1989, we thought the steaming carcass was something a concept artist might use to depict beauty in death. Nowadays, with both of us on the plus side of 50, the death of anything reminds us of our own mortality and the preciousness of life.
Dead creatures, at various levels of decay and being devoured, festoon the sides of outback roads. With such a never ending cavalcade of life and death, car journeys necessitate caution and vigilance so as to be on guard against hitting roos, emus, goats, wedge tailed eagles, sheep or even cows. Kangaroos and goats are attracted to the edge of roads by the grass that grows there, nourished by water that runs off the camber of the surface. Lured there, the roos run the gauntlet of cars and when they are hit they attract raptors. The recently killed often lie in the middle of the road adorned with crows and wedge tailed eagles. When cars approach, crows are quick to move but wedge tailed eagles, the A380 of the bird world, need much more time to make their escape. While Kiki and I feel bad about the deaths caused cars on outback roads, most of our apprehension is due to a fear of creatures damaging the vehicle and the cost and inconvenience resulting from outback accidents, viz the van making the sad journey back to Cobar.
We stopped at the Emmdale road house where a young woman was sweeping the dirt off the path at the front. Taking care with appearances in an environment often subjected to dust storms suggested it might be worthwhile lingering in this place a little longer. Inside the simple but tidy road side stop was a French woman with green eyes, who with her partner run the roadhouse. We both obtained food, surprised by its availability in such a remote place: fresh lasagne for Kiki and a nutritious salad sandwich for me. What at first blush looked like the road house featured in the start of Wolf Creek, turned out to be an idyll in the middle of nowhere.
Headed to Wilcannia, where Kiki has never stopped. It is a town with metal grills or boards on many of its buildings' windows. Like the Darling river that runs almost dry through its middle, the town seems desiccated, sapped of strength, ready to give up and be taken over by the surrounding bush.
We both marvelled at how we still had cell phone reception far away from the nearest big town. So because we could we rang friends and family from our mobile island of civilization. While we we experienced a sense of awe at the loneliness and peace of mind that being in the outback bought, I was slightly irritated that not once did Kiki offer me a Jatz cracker from the packet he was gorging himself on. Later he explained his apparent lack of generosity was because he thought I was satisfied with the Sakata seeweed crackers I was nibbling on. I rationalised his selfish behaviour as being a personality quirk or character flaw consequent upon living by himself for so many years. "Lucky I have my wife to bring me into line" I thought as I contemplated the edges of savagery inhabited by my travelling companion.
Later on we stopped at Little Topar - we never did find out where Big Topar or Topar were - the place we stopped at was certainly small so the adjective 'little' was quite apt. Always on the look out for humorous curios, even confected ones, we both took photos of a sign instructing pet owners to stop their dogs defecating near the sign. It struck us that there were probably more pet friendly places in the world than Little Topar. Speaking of pets, soon after Little Topar, I spoke to my good friend Marky Gledhill, whose dog Murph, was not well, and who unfortunately subsequently died after a poor dietary choice involving an inappropriately ingested sock.
Just west of Broken Hill, we crossed into the state of South Australia and took a photo of a large sign welcoming travellers to the State. Interestingly, going the other way on the Barrier highway, there was no similar sign welcoming drivers and passengers to New South Wales. "Was this disparity a vestige of one State being an ex penal colony and the other being convict free?" Kiki hypothesised. Kiki comes up with many far fetched theories in his self appointed role as forensic historian, and like the famous stopped clock, he is probably accurate now and then.
Further on we saw a Hills Hoist erected on a mound on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. The significance of this artefact went beyond a forensic historical examination into the realm of cultural theory and Kiki was at a loss as to why this Barrie Koskyesque motif might be half way between Cockburn and Yunta.
Later I went through my first fruit fly quarantine point and was rather surprised to be first stopped and then have the car searched by a Crow eater looking for smuggled fruit and vegetables. The official went about the fruit and vegetable detection task in a cheerful way and gave us a friendly smile despite having no teeth. I guess if you wanted to smuggle a tray of nectarines or the like into South Australia your best bet would be to do so under the cover of darkness. Onwards we went driving through first through Peterborough and then Orroroo, the town with the longest name in the world consisting of just two different letters. Peterborough used to be the meeting point of the Indian Pacific and old Ghan rail lines and this heritage of a halcyon rail ensured a critical mass, which seems to have saved it from becoming a ghost town.
We saw beautiful bush scrub scenes going into Port Augusta, arriving there at 7.00 pm. Port Augusta claims to be the cross roads of Australia, but with major roads running north, west and east is really a T intersection. Stayed in room decorated like Mrs Lepperts house. We then drove to an Indian restaurant for dinner - called the Standpipe. It had a big Australian homestead kind of feel. Not at all Indian. But excellent food and a nice young waitress. Had a long chat with Kiki about Regan family stuff. Slept well.
No comments:
Post a Comment